Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“Detrick’s a fucking cop. A husband with three teenaged girls. He coaches the football team.”

“I know who he is! And I know how this sounds!” I snap. “Look, he’s in the middle of a messy divorce. Maybe that was the trigger for this escalation.”

“Kate . . .”

“I don’t like this any more than you do. But I can’t ignore what I’ve found.”

He sighs, and I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The kind of feeling when I know someone whose opinion I value is about to say something I don’t want to hear. Because that person is John, it hurts. And it scares me because without him, I’m on my own.

“It fits,” I say, trying to sound calm. “He lived in every city where the murders occurred. The signatures are almost exact. He actually ‘found’ one of the bodies. We both know these kinds of killers have been known to get involved with the police investigation. He’s a cop so he knows how to cover his ass. He worked at the slaughterhouse as a teenager. He shaves his head, John. Did you ever wonder why the lab never found a single hair at any of the crime scenes? I’ll bet he shaves all of his body hair.”

“That sounds paranoid as hell.”

“Then help me disprove it.”

“Does Detrick know you suspect him?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way.” His curse burns through the line. “Give me a few hours to get there.”

The drive from Columbus to Painters Mill would normally take a couple of hours. But with the storm dumping snow at about an inch an hour, I know it could be morning before he arrives. “Okay.”

“I want you to go home. Get your facts in order. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let Detrick know you’re looking at him. And do me a favor, will you?”

“Depends.”

“Watch your back.”

He disconnects without saying good-bye.

The doubt I heard in his voice weighs on me. Being formerly Amish and a woman, I’ve had to work hard to earn the reputation I have. Credibility is important to me. I hate it that both of those things have come into question.

Turning the Mustang around, I start toward home. Visibility is so poor I can barely see the streetlights along Main. The county has sent out snowplows, but there aren’t enough to keep up with the deluge. I’m two blocks from my house when I see the flash of police lights in my rearview mirror. At first I think it’s Pickles, wanting to speak with me about what happened back at the station.

That theory is dashed when I glance in my side mirror and see a sheriff’s office Suburban. Even in the heavily falling snow, I recognize Detrick’s silhouette when he gets out. For a crazy instant, I consider jamming the Mustang into gear and making a run for it, but I know fleeing will only make things worse. All I have to do is stay cool. After all, he doesn’t know I suspect him.

I had to relinquish my service revolver when I was fired, but I possess a concealed firearm license and own a nice little Kimber .45. Quickly, I snatch the firearm out of the console and drop it into my coat pocket.

Detrick taps on the driver’s window. I hit the down button. “What’s the problem?”

“Turn off the engine.”

“What?”

“Do it, Burkholder. Get out of the vehicle. Right now.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve been drinking. I smelled it back at the police station. I smell it now. Get the fuck out of the car.”

My heart begins to pound. I hadn’t expected this. A dozen responses scroll through my brain, but none of my options are good. “I’m not comfortable doing that, Detrick. I’ll follow you back to the station and submit to a Breathalyzer there.”

“Not comfortable?” He glares at me through the six-inch opening of the window. “Open the door. Now.”

I keep my voice level and unemotional. “Call another officer out here and I’ll comply.”

“Get out of that fucking vehicle!” he roars. “Now!”

I think of the horrific things this man might have done. I can’t imagine him believing he can get away with harming me. But there’s no way I’m getting out of my vehicle. I hit the automatic door locks.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says.

“Get Pickles out here and I’ll comply.” Snow swirls in through the six-inch open window.

He leans closer. “You make me drag another cop out here and I’ll throw the book at you. DUI. Resisting. Whatever else I can think of. I’ll ruin you, Burkholder. You’ll be lucky to get a job as a parking lot attendant.”

I say nothing.

“Have it your way.” As if resigned, he straightens and reaches for the radio. “This is 247—”

The window shatters. Glass pelts me. I catch a glimpse of Detrick’s gloved fist as it flies toward my face. I see something dark in his hand. I ram the shifter into gear, but before I can stomp the gas, I hear the sickening crack! of the stun gun. Five hundred thousand volts of electricity jump from the electrodes into my neck.

It’s like being hit by a baseball bat. I feel the jolt all the way to my bones. I’m aware of the Mustang rolling forward, but I can’t make my foot hit the gas. The charge has paralyzed me. Confusion swirls in my head. As Detrick reaches in and turns off the ignition, I know I’ve made a fatal mistake.

CHAPTER 33

It took John an hour to get out of the city. Not only were the roads hazardous, but multiple accidents had many streets blocked. The driving wouldn’t have been so bad, but at some point he’d started to worry about Kate. Her suspicions about Detrick might sound outrageous, but she had a good head on her shoulders. More importantly, she was a good cop. If her suspicions were correct, there could be a serial murderer with a badge on the prowl in Painters Mill.

While waiting for an accident to clear on Highway 16 out of Newark, he tried her cell, but got voice mail. He left a message, then tried her home phone. Something darker than worry gripped him when he got her machine.

“Where the hell are you?” he muttered and disconnected.

He still had Glock’s number on his cell, so John tried him next. To his relief, he answered. “Have you seen Kate?”

“Not since earlier today. What’s up?”

He debated on how much to tell. “I was wondering if you could swing by her house and check on her.”

“I can go by there right now.” He paused. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

John inched past a jackknifed eighteen wheeler where EMTs pulled the driver from a mangled cab. “I can’t get into it, Glock.”

“I’m officially fuckin’ worried now, Tomasetti.”

“Check on her. I’ll fill you in when I get there.” Squinting through the snow flying at his windshield, he jacked the speedometer to forty and hoped like hell Kate was wrong.

I’m aware of being dragged from my vehicle. Snow on my face. In my hair. Spilling down my collar. I’m in terrible trouble, but I’m in no shape to do anything about it.

Another crack! sounds.

Pain rocks my body, jumbles my brain. My muscles lock up. I’m facedown in the snow. It’s in my mouth and eyes. Cold against my face. I sense Detrick kneeling beside me. My hands being yanked behind my back. I try to fight, end up flopping around like a fish.

“You should have let it go, Kate.”

I try to scream, but my mouth is full of snow and I manage only a sputter. I try to shake off the disorientation. But it’s as if I’m locked in a fog.

He hits me with the stun gun again. Pain wrenches a groan from me. My muscles go rigid. I feel my eyes roll back. Consciousness slips and the world goes monochrome. I’m aware of him tromping through the snow. Moving around. But I’m too dazed to determine what he’s doing. I tug on the bindings at my wrists, but they remain tight. Rolling, I raise my head and look around. Snow swirls down from a black sky. I see headlights. And then Detrick is standing over me.

“You’re not quite so smart now, are you?”

The next thing I know his hands are beneath my arms and he’s dragging me. I try to kick, realize my feet are bound. He opens the trunk of my Mustang, lifts me as if I weigh nothing, and throws me inside. I land hard on my shoulder. I feel his hands at my ankles, yanking them up and behind me, and I realize he’s hog-tying me.

“Help me!” I scream as loud as I can. “Help!”

“Shut up.”

“Help me please !”

Grasping my hair, he yanks my head back and shoves a wad of fabric into my mouth. Before I can spit it out, he wraps a length of tape over my mouth and around my head.

Reaching into the trunk, he yanks the emergency trunk release cable, disabling it. “So you don’t get any ideas about climbing out.”

The trunk slams and I’m engulfed in darkness. I hear myself breathing hard through my nose. My pulse roars in my ears. I hear the engine start. Not my vehicle, but his. A moment later the Mustang moves, and I realize he’s towing my car. In that moment, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. I know Detrick is going to kill me. I’ve seen his bloody handiwork. Panic rears inside me and I begin to struggle mindlessly. Animalistic grunts tear from my throat only to be trapped by the gag. I writhe and buck until my entire body trembles with exhaustion and adrenaline.

After what seems like an eternity, I force myself to calm down. I take deep breaths. I focus on relaxing my arms, then my legs. After a few moments my head clears and I can think. He disabled the emergency trunk release, but I know there’s a hatch between the trunk and the back seat. If I can find it, I might be able to escape.

Maneuvering around in the trunk is awkward and agonizingly slow. I feel for the seat latch with my face. It takes several minutes, but I finally find it in the forward right corner. I need my teeth, but my mouth is taped. Pressing my face against the latch, I use it to peel away the tape. I feel the sharp edge cutting my lip, but I don’t care. Slowly, the tape peels back. Clamping down with my teeth, I pull hard on the latch, and the mechanism clicks. I butt the seatback with my head. A muffled sob of relief escapes me when the seat folds down.

It takes every ounce of strength I possess to squirm from the trunk to the back seat. Using my shoulders and hips and head, I push myself to the floor, then worm forward until I’m wedged between the front seats. I’m nearly to the driver’s seat when the vehicle stops.

Panic descends. I squirm frantically, somehow make it over the console, and roll onto the driver’s seat. Using my forehead, I hit the automatic door locks. Then I press my chin against the horn. Relief flits through me at the sound. I think of the Kimber in my pocket, and try to think of a way to get to it. I see my cell phone on the passenger seat. Without thinking, I writhe toward it, grab it with my teeth. Can’t get it to my pocket, so I duck my head, drop it down my shirt.

A hand reaches through the broken window. An instant later, the door swings open. Grinning, Detrick thrusts the stun gun at me.

Crack!

Vivid pain explodes through my body. My muscles seize. I catch a glimpse of his face as he reaches for me. I lean my weight against the horn, reveling in the blare of it, praying someone hears it. Rough hands yank me from the vehicle. I land in the snow. The next thing I know I’m being dragged by my hair. Pain zings across my scalp. I hear hair being torn from its roots. Snow goes down my collar. I twist, try to get my bearings. We’re in a clearing, surrounded by trees. Ahead, I see the dark silhouette of a farmhouse. A silo beyond. A drooping barn.